As I mentioned earlier my Mum was somehow gifted with a knowledge of how ‘things might be’. The daughter of a coal miner she had, apparently, been sent to a convent school. Her family home was bleak to say the least but somehow she seemed to understand there were ‘better things in life’ than she could ever have experienced herself and crucially with the right approach they were achievable. At an early age she would tell me off for speaking badly, easy to do on Mersyside where the standard accent is guttural and ugly.

At the age of 8 she sent me to elocution lessons. Mrs Butterworth would make me rehearse poetry reading. Diction and voice control were important skills to learn as were developing a sense of rhythm and delivering intonation at the appropriate point. She must have been very good because one day she asked to speak to my Mum and she told her that I should enter the local Music and Verse festival. The appointed poem was identified and practice commenced. I can remember clear as day that Saturday morning when my name was called and ‘mini me’ set off to stand on the stage in front of a huge audience. I cant remember the poem totally but it was called Danny Murphy and it was about an old man who had lost his ability to have fun. It started with the phrase ‘he was as old as old could be his little eye could scare-sly see and ended on the joyful note that laughter rendered him as ‘young as young could be’. In some ways quite dark for an 8 year old. Anyway I won the class by a mile got all sorts of accolades and then for good measure I won The John Macdonald Cup for the outstanding performance in verse speaking. Wow! Well done Mrs B. On the following Saturday evening I was in the cast for the gala performance. There was tap dancing, singing,musical instruments of all types and each of the category cup winners was asked to perform. I was quite a small 8 year old and I remember well the feeling standing for the first time under the glare of spotlights which probably helped as it obscured a packed hall and audience. I did my thing and, probably because I was so small got a standing ovation.

It was the start of many festivals many medals and many cups. I still have most of them now. On occasion I would even win money which Mum would usually take from me. I could not blame her because she was working hard herself in order to give me opportunity.

At around ten someone suggested at a festival that I had real talent and Mum took me to the Sheila Elliott School of dance and drama in Liverpool to see how I got on. Now I won’t lie it was all more than a bit unnerving. First of all to my eyes about 95% of the people were girls. Most older than me and whilst I went to a mixed primary school it took some acclimatising to. Worst of all the way to the room where we were to train and perform was next to the changing room and I remember the trauma at seeing a whole load of aspiring ballerinas scantily clad getting ready for their class. One screamed ‘A boy’ ! I was horrified at the time.

Any way I had but one lesson and the woman in charge contacted my mother. The Liverpool Repretory company are looking for a child male actor to be in the play Summer and Smoke by Tennessee Williams. I think your son might not the bill. The audition went well but again huge embarrassment as two of the actors decided to ‘enjoy each others company’ not suspecting a young person was about to enter the dressing room i had been assigned.

Three weeks later I was back stage dressed in knee length shorts a bowe tie and tweed jacket. The humm of the audience apparent to my ears. I was being paid £3 10 shillings a week a veritable fortune! ‘Beginners please’ was the cry from the head stage hand. The lights dimmed and I took my place behind a winged statue waiting to spring out and surprise a young girl. My role and the girls formed the prologue to the play and we played the two key figures as children explaining in our 15 minute slot the complications of their early life. The foot lights came up and Rebecca Watts (her actual name) sidled across the stage. I sprang from behind my hiding place popped my cheek with my finger to startle her and started with ‘Hi Preachers Daughter I’ve been looking for you’. Both our reviews in the papers and indeed in ‘Stage’ were complimentary- ‘Dennis Elliott showed unnatural talent for one so young’ or similar Some of my script was cut owing to complaints about its nature referring to my dead mother and the smell of her body. Someone had written in expressing disgust that some one so young as me should utter such words. As soon as we finished we would change and head off home. Saturday was the odd day out because there were two performances and on the occasion of the matinee Rebecca and I took a curtain call, heady stuff. In many ways it was wonderful but i had just started at my secondary school and three weeks of late nights were not good. To make things work one of my teachers came to watch the play and as soon as he realised it was me acting. He stated treating me as some kind of celebrity in his class which contra to what you might expect made me less than popular with my new peers. I will never really know if I could have been an actor but I suspect I could. I dabbled once or twice in later life but never took it seriously. However many times in my business life, making after dinner speeches or just being a best man I found that standing up in front of a large number of people was something I took in my stride. Thanks Mum.

One particular event in later life stands out as it was so weird. Liz and I have a very old friendship with David and Mary Laing. The truth is we had many incredible adventures with the Laings I will recant some of them later. Close neighbours our daughter Jo spent countless hours riding with the Laings youngest Vicky. They lived in a magnificent stately home at the centre of Mackerye End probably the most magnificent home I have ever seen. Any way cutting a very long story short there we were on the occasion of the Laings ‘something’ wedding anniversary and David, much to Mary’s customary disgust had pushed the boat out. We were standing on Waterloo Station in our finery awaiting the Orient Express. David had reserved a whole carriage and we and a large group of their other friends were to be joined by a professional group of actors who were playing out a murder mystery. Personally I hate the things but that is not the point. Any way having arrived in Brighton our party had arranged to view the magnificent Brighton pavilion and the cast of the mystery had arranged to stage a scene in the pavilion itself. An unsuspecting audience of visitors to the pavilion making up the intrigue and so as to wrong foot those in own discreet party who were engaged in trying to unlock the clues to who dunnit.

One of the actors came up to me in a panic. I am so sorry he said but one of our number was supposed to rendezvous with us at Brighton and he has been held up in a traffic jam. We need some one to play a gangster. but don’t worry you will be fully dressed up in a costume you will be a clown. I was quickly dresses in bubbly red wig my face whitened and a false round nose placed on my real one. Large baggy checked trousers oversize shoes and a yellow tail coat made up my look. I was given a machine gun and a table tennis bat on which my words were written. Just a handful of sentences.-to be delivered in thick Chicago accent was the add on. Wit until you hear machine gun fire was my last instruction then emerge from your hiding place and off you go! No rehearsals nothing. I stood there thinking what the hell have I agreed to when a some pall went up and the sound of machine gun fire rang out. Some one in the audience screamed. I leapt forward delivered my lines and it was over. In truth I nailed it. My makeup wiped off my face washed I returned to our party. No-one knew it was me although some commented as to where is the clown? I even heard some compliments. The actors gave me a signed copy of a book regarding The Orient Express which I still have if anyone wants to doubt the tale. In it they thank me for my intervention. I have no idea who did it but on the day I did and it was quite an experience.

To say the least Phillips and Drew was an eye opener. The office was full at 8 am, way before the market opening. The morning meeting was complex with a huge number of topics and information discussed. There was a positive pile of information to digest and from which to inform clients. Many of the analysts were quite dour, most were younger than the norm but all were extremely hard working and keen to help. The level of business was on a scale I had not seen at Laurence Prust. The millions of pounds transacted became tens of millions of pounds and the energy and industry of all was awe inspiring. Paul Smallwood orchestrated the show. Our telephone system consisted of banks of lines with flashing lights indicating incoming calls. Large clients had their own direct line. The number one rule was never let a phone ring more than once. If it did Paul or other team members would become agitated, put their hand over their receiver so as not to alarm the person they were speaking to but so as to urge others to ‘answer the phone’. To this day if a phone rings more than once I develop a tic my face. ‘Phone’ I will cry ‘please answer it some one’.

The truth is I took to it like a duck to water. The more business flowed the better I got. My dear friend David Lis had by this time moved to London and was working for a large and very successful unit trust group. He managed a large amount of money and like me was very good at making fast decisions under pressure. We were a perfect team me offering ideas he acting upon those ideas and performing well for his investors and clients.

The International desk served clients from all over the world and I progressively became the focus of our push into the USA. Hugely professional clients, massive amounts of money under management. I was well and truly in yet big time.

Paul Smallwood was far sited and he discovered a course being run at The Chicago Business School on the subject of ‘International Investing’. Participants will be fund managers with MBA’s or equivalent degrees. Smallwood had never been to the USA but guessing the course participants would be prospective clients he signed us both George Gray and I up. I was horrified. My learning processes as I mentioned had limited my formal education and to go to such a prominent university under the tutelage of a professor who was the leading academic in the investment world in those days would be one hell of a test.

At the Heathrow George ordered me to load up at the duty free with Malt whiskies. We had a whole load of bottles, way over the limit I suspect but no-one checked and we kept quiet. I do not like malt whisky but I hoped that George was planning some ‘alternative course’ that I might find more to my skillset. On the first day I elected to take one of the several option courses run during he week. This was in fact quite literally an ‘options course’. The teacher covered the blackboard with mathematical formulae stood back looking triumphant and asked the question ‘Anyone disagree with the math?’ (Gulp-way above my pay grade). ‘Ladies and Gentlemen I give you Black and Schole’, an advanced theoretical study of option strategy.

Most of the participants on the course were very nice and they came from all over the USA. American investors were just beginning to move money around the world and these money managers were keen to learn more of the risk reward profiles of the exercise. On the wednesday afternoon there was a ‘social option’ an opportunity to play golf. George Gray was in fact a scratch golfer. He sent me to a local store with the order to stock up on beer, ice and crisps. He hired some golf clubs from the pro shop and an electric buggy. I filled the buggy with goodies and we were ready when the other ‘golfers’ arrived. There were around a dozen of them. All smartly dressed, all with their own kit. Foursomes were picked and George informed our ‘new friends’ that ‘Elliott’ will drive the refreshment cart.

George was in the first foursome on the tee and last to go. The first three golfers sent off good to reasonable drives down the fairway. It was Georges turn. He took no practice swing at all but just smoked a beauty down the middle of the fairway, grimaced and made some self deprecating comment. The whole group stared open mouthed.

In the evening George and I entered the dining room for dinner. As we did several of the golfers hailed George. He had won the competition easily and his round was being described around the various tables. Fingers were pointed in our direction and I had one or two people come over to compliment me on my ‘bar skills,’ I had kept all well watered. The course organiser presented George with a tacky trophy and George made a short speech introducing ‘Elliott’ and himself and the company we represented with the rider that we were probably the best team of people in the UK to advise on investment in UK securities. His master stroke was to invite ‘anyone interested’ at the conference to a ‘malt whiskey tasting’ at “Elliotts Room” later in the evening. I returned to my room. made it look spick and span, strategically left a few investment reports laying around and proceeded to set out the Malt Whiskey bottles and a whole series of plastic glasses for tasting.

The evening was a huge success. For years afterwards I would find myself at a conference or in some clients office somewhere in the USA. People from that course would recognise me and come over. ‘Elliott’ good to see you Chuck Brewster Ohio Stage pension Fund or similar, let me introduce you to my colleagues. Formality, qualification and knowledge are of course important and so are MBA’s but judging by the success I enjoyed with my American client base over the years, there is another way.

The die had been well and truly cast regarding the fruitful period of my career. I will move away from my life story here in order to follow some of the more interesting episodes and adventures I have experienced in my life. it is random but hopefully interesting.

Life was good. My work life balance was in order and I was even turning out for Barnet RFC. My shoulder was never quite right but with my fitness greatly improved by running around the area I was keen to have a go. The occasional game in the thirds soon became a starting spot in the 1st XV and whilst I never regained a serious level it was great fun. I made it my business to keep my early rugby career quiet. Most knew me as the bloke who joined from Finchley. I did all sorts of committee jobs and I was in charge of ‘teas’. Well err to be honest Liz was. Once a week she would concoct a stew that would be served with a large dollop of smash. In truth the only upside to this episode was we got a card to the local cash and carry which was always a fun outing. We bought all sorts of things in bulk.

My business life was blossoming. Whilst still the recognised ‘contact point’ for all things shipping I was now a fully fledged general ‘sales man’. I was producing large revenues for the firm and learning loads about how pension funds, insurance funds and private individual unit trusts and Investment trusts worked. I had some excellent advice from an a old sage and I was lucky because, based upon my life experience, I found it totally natural to seek and crucially take advice. The basic message I got was as follows. You have two ears and one mouth so listen twice as much as you talk to your clients. Learn about them, their particular requirements. If possible get to know their families. I took this advice on board and most business conversations would often start with a discussion about a sick dog or a garden project. It all created ‘trust’ and trust is the most important thing in an advisory business. My rugby background again served me well and I found I had a network. Client A would meet Client B at a lunch maybe. Client A might say ‘have you met that Dennis Elliott over at Laurence Prust?’ ‘He is a good man a fine rugby payer’ (although many had never seen me play). If the man in question was keen on rugby he might note the name and give me a call. Some would some didn’t. Another word of advice I received was ‘ the most important people are your biggest clients” “Never take them for granted and build the big clients into huge ones’. It was all such good advice.

Over time I built up a long list of clients who were genuinely friends. My litmus test was if I could call a ‘client’ and roundly abuse them verbally for five minutes before getting down to business then they were ‘OK’ and worth cultivating. I was able to take clients to lunch in fine restaurants, go on trips to sporting events and all sorts of other things. From the outside it might all seem rather unusual but there was a deadly serious side to it. My clients were typically very well educated people with the huge responsibility of managing other peoples money. In some cases hundreds of millions of pounds. When it came down to the dessert course the requirement to justify my firms recommendation to buy shares in British Aerospace, as an example, needed to be well rehearsed, accurate and ultimately successful as an investment. On balance I did well and my network and reputation grew such that one day Dan mentioned I was involved in a preliminary review for a partnership of the firm.

Laurence Prust had its own fund management division. Its clients were very wealth individuals who were cared for by a crew of very serious minded individuals all very ‘public school’ and ‘fair play’. The chief man of the division was Bill Stuttaford who was a very successful fund manager and a man of considerable reputation. He was later to become Sir Bill Stuttaford Chairman of th Conservative Party and some one who did more for charity than any one else I have ever met. Our paths were to cross in later life but one day he invited me to come and address his division at their weekly meeting ‘on anything that might interest us from your work with the institutions’ was the brief.

It was very daunting addressing an audience of about 100 people. They were all scrupulously polite such that I had to rein my humour inmate least for the first few meetings.To begin with I talked about shipping shares which was my fall back subject for many years to come. in this area I had had an expertise. An opinion which, whilst it could always be challenged, was unlikely to fall down under cross examination. Over the weeks and months I broadened my agenda and I would arrive at the meeting with perhaps ‘six of the “most interesting” things I had heard in the previous week’. Sometimes it would be more sometimes less. To prepare for this talk I would ask all my clients the same question. ‘Anything really interesting on your horizon”. Often the answer would be no but on many occasions I would get some snippet of information or perhaps some warning of a possible roadblock ahead. Put together my talks became things of quality. The thoughts of Dennis Elliott haha! It was a new methodology I had discovered and soon my own clients were receiving a version of the talks and my reputation for being someone who was interesting and well informed took a step forward. On occasion my theories or predictions would come true and people would marvel at my insight.

One afternoon a phone call came in. ‘Hello’, ‘is that Dennis Elliott?’, can you talk?. It was a man called Rupert something or-other and he declared himself to be a ‘headhunter’. Your name has been given to me by a client as being an outstanding young salesman and a major firm is interested in talking to you.

In those days in the City there were several ‘major’ firms who were typically long standing with partnerships where son would often follow father. Pubic school and Oxbridge dominated. Elite arrogant companies which generated huge revenues for their partners. The term ‘stockbroker belt’ brings to mind areas of huge houses in magnificent settings in the home counties. Partners of these organisations were coining it.

There was however a challenge to the old order. It was called Phillips and Drew. It had a wholly different approach to the other firms as its methodology in forecasting market trends was wholly based on ‘top down’ economics. Its employees were known as incredibly hard working. Most had a redbrick university back ground. Nearly all had economic degrees and together they had created a big change in the city such that they, on merit, had moved to the very top rungs of the ladder in terms of business transacted. Their Chief Economist Paul Neil would be the first to appear on the TV after a budget or any major government announcement. His strong Northern accent in sharp contrast to the typical city type, his intellect the peer of any. If not the very top dog they were, as an organisation, on the podium. They became the acceptable face of The City Of london.

I met Paul Smallwood in The East India Club just off Oxford Street. It was ‘love at first sight’. He was tall elegant, very polished in his demeanour and yet his shoes had been repaired, many times, on the outside! His shirt missed a button and his cuffs were showing wear. He chose my food for me and set off telling me why I would be successful at P& D. He was under the impression I still played for the Harlequins. I tried to put him right but he was not interested. He explained to me that Phillips and Drew were tearing up the league tables on all fronts but that they had attracted a workforce which, although very hard working were a little ‘dull’ and as a result some of the largest clients in the city were still to become fans of the firm. ‘We need someone different’ he said ‘someone with a real personality’. ‘I think it could be you”. As if it was a plant in walked another man, George Gray. George was quite simply a wonderful man. Hugely intelligent, educated at Oxford, fluent in German and French although purposefully delivered in an English accent. His wife, I later learned, was a delightful woman and came from the North of England and whilst an airess to a famous toy company fortune was well and truly grounded. She also probably kept her husbands feet planted too. George was a scratch golfer and had the tendency to be over tactile which I was never sure was a way of controlling people or else making them feel uncomfortable. A needless detail maybe but true. Any way George sat down and Paul introduced George as ‘my future boss’-err this is going bit quick I thought. George asked my view on the forthcoming budget and whether the recent GDP contraction was likely to continue. I grinned and cheerfully explained they had ‘got the wrong man’ as I did not have clue! Smallwood laughed. ‘Excellent” “I knew it”, ‘you are exactly what we want- something different’. He seemed satisfied sent for the bill but then ‘made me’ drink a few ports. George and I chatted about various things and I discovered George had a good sense of humour. Suddenly Smallwood adopted a secretive pose. Remember this he said ‘My dogs name is Rose and I have an Investment Committee review taking place next Thursday the 12th and I will need some help preparing my paper’. “What?”He was off into the night. George assured me that whilst totally eccentric paul Smallwood was the best person to work for he had ever known. Deadly serious, hugely competitive, yet polite, kind and fair. In his own right he was formidable producer as a business man as clients just loved him.

The following morning I was at my desk early feeling not a little confused and indeed a bit overhung. My phone rang. It was Smallwood. In a sort of stage whisper he asked me to tell him the name of his dog and what event he was preparing for in the coming months. I had listened so I passed the test. He later told me that on many occasions clients will tell you important facts when you may have been drinking. Those who find alcohol impairs their memory are not born to be successful. It was an odd test but apparently I passed.

It all moved quickly. I was offered a position working for George Gray in the International Team (I was not quite sure what that meant). The overall commander of the division was Paul Smallwood and there were around 40 people in the team. Advising clients not only in the UK but all over the world. I was offered a small salary hike but I was to be put on a profit sharing scheme of which few details were explained. The message from the go between, the headhunter, was this was my chance to join the premier league the big time. Laurence Prust is an excellent form but Phillis and Drew… Hmmm! Dan hardly tried to talk me out of it. Indeed I think he was secretly proud his man had been noticed and had been found attractive by atop firm. he stated muttering something about my partnership likely to go through but promptly stopped. he put on hid jacket and ordering me to follow he headed fr our favourite wine bar and bought me a bottle of champagne-and then another. Ooer I was in the big time. Could I cope Gulp!!

Life was good in 1980. My darling daughter was a delight. She loved animals and spent hours ‘chatting to’ ‘Amna’ (Amber) through the garden fence. Our neighbours Ken and Kaye doted on Jo and they were for ever presenting us with gifts from their allotment. Ken advised Liz on gardening and armed with a new manual my darling wife started to create. It was lovely. In the middle was a ‘lawn’, my first. It was postage stamp in size. Somehow we got to know a local ‘fixer’. he was 14 or 15 years of age and from time to time he would knock on the door with some ‘special offer’. I suppose I should have asked him his ‘sources’ but I didn’t as he was a delightful lad. One day he knocked on the door. ‘I have just the thing for you’ he said, ‘a petrol mower’. Someone I know wants rid of it and you can have it for £8? or something silly. Of course I bought it. It was way too big for our lawn but that did not stop me trying. One day I managed to mow some of Liz’s blooms, which was a bad thing. The mower was put in the shed but my love of all things related to grass and lawns had been born.

As the grandson of a coal miner I had a many qualifications to judge the unattractive side of capitalism. Many of the people on The Stock Exchange were wonderful but many were not and I often saw examples of corruption and cheating and it deeply troubled me. There were ‘rings’ of investors in place who would buy shares for themselves and fellow cheats and then somehow persuade a financial journalist to write a bullish article in the paper. Probably the journalist was one of the ring. I could have exposed any number of these groups but I was advised against it.

I would often brood about my lot in life considering the nature of my business and the fact that by now I was beginning to have, what was for me anyway, some serious savings and luxuries. We had by this time bought a Volvo Estate car. It was super luxurious and it purred along. One day Kay asked me in for a cuppa. She was a volunteer worker at the local ‘Multi Sclerosis Residential Care Home’. She told me that due to retirement a vacancy had arisen for an ambulance driver to take residents to various social functions around North London. In truth I have always been very squeamish about all things medical and like many, I have discovered, I am deeply troubled by people in wheelchairs. I did not think it at all a good idea but I said yes.

For the next few years, twice a week, I would drive the ambulance with its lifting tailgate. I would wheel the patients in and out-not sure I ever had a health and safety lecture. I would take them to various venues, sit around waiting for a couple of hours, then return them to the ‘home.’ I watched many decline, some ‘disappeared’, but all were so grateful and as I became more comfortable i would lead the singing on the way back home. It gave me a sense of perspective and gratitude. the Marie Foster Home had a huge impact on me in many ways. thank you Kaye for the introduction.Liz and I had taken to running and we would take it in turns to go off and run around the local area in the evenings, the other one would look after our daughter. One day an idea came to us after a glass of wine-many ideas have arrived via that route! We decided to answer the call of a fund raising initiative for a new ambulance for the home. After sleeping on the pavement in a queue we both got places in The London Marathon and we lined up together at the start and both completed the course achieving our funding goal thanks to the support of many kind friends. It was to be our first official athletic event together. The first of many.

Liz and I found a house right on the edge of London in the beautiful suburb of Arkly. It was just fabulous. Double Fronted, amazing proportions a view to fields from the rear. It was a complete redo but we were both so excited when we put in what we thought was a full offer. The deal appeared to be going through and we easily sold our house again just about double;ing our money. Close to the day of exchange of contracts all went quiet. AT the last minute we got a call, no deal, we had been gazumped. We were really disappointed but looking back I can see that maybe there was a reason for the event. I cannot think that if we had bought that house that we would have ever wanted to leave it such was its appeal and just maybe the adventures that followed in our life would not have happened. I wonder what the alternative route might have been?

Instead we bough a huge Edwardian semi detached house in High Barnet with a rear balcony with views down over London. It was in ruth a magnificent house but again complete redo. It had no central heating such that when we moved in it was freezing and the building society had held back a portion of the mortgage loan until we had effected some particular repairs. The Halifax building society had not bargained for a woman with the wiles of Liz Elliott. Back in the day ankle length over coats were the fashion and Liz had a grey herringbone one tat was very smart. She placed a series of pillows down her front secured with a belt and answered the front door to the building society officer with her impossible beautiful blond daughter sort of held out front. ‘It is very cold in here’ she said. We are trying to get things fixed but in my condition…’ The man produced a form and signed it and was gone. the central heating was installed two weeks later. However Liz’s bump was in fact a portent of more good news as soon we learned of the impending arrival of our second child. We really had to geta move on as the house was large. Jo, bless her, would sit on paint pots and cast to me when I was working. We made built in wardrobes, tiled bathrooms and installed a superb MFI kitchen that we bought in one of their sales at a knock down price. It was all coming together and we bought our first proper car a BMW.

I started work at Laurence Prust and it went well. Liz and I had created an absolute jewel in our house in Sebright Road. I am confident that if we entered it today as it was then we would be very proud. We lived in a predominantly working class family area. The majority of terraced house in our road were homes to plumbers and carpenters and bus drivers. I made it my business to only wear a tie when I was not in the road and no one ever asked me what I did. We fitted in and we love it. Our next door neighbours Kay and Ken and their lovely labrador Amber seems to take great delight in being our neighbours. They were like second parents to us. Ken persuaded me to take on a an allotment-oh what a mistake that was.

My job was essentially to form relationships with as many Fund managers as I practically could and advise them as to their investment policy in shipping shares. Dan would write reports and commentaries and on occasion change his recommendations on the various shares. I would ring the fund managers, update them as to our thoughts and if they were happy to follow our advise I would manage their transaction via my walkie talkie to my ‘dealer’ on the floor of the house who would in turn deal with either my old jobbing form or one of the others. In time my client list grew. Relatively speaking it was way less stressful than working on the floor. It was an office job yes so the company was my immediate colleagues but soon clients became friends and the whole circle of business fed on itself. I met a man called David Lis who was a fund manager in a small company in Newcastle. Over the years we formed a great friendship and relationship. In the end David became one of the best known and most powerful figures in the City and became the Chief Investment Officer of the mighty Aviva insurance company.

As time went by I began to understand way more than the shipping sector. Laurence Prust specialised in Food Retailing companies as well and defence companies were a particular strength. Technology was on the horizon too and two of the firm’s analysts were trail blazers in this area. My brief spread as a quiet time in shipping shares would cause me to start opining on the nature of food retailing price wars and the likely winners and losers. For some reason I became infatuated with a company called GEC which was at the time one of the UK’s most undervalued conglomerates led by a shadowy figure called Arnold Winestock. Our analyst in the stock, Gerry Crowly, constantly fed me a stream of information. Bits of knowledge and insight and before long I was persuading all sorts of clients to but shares in the company. Every time I received a buy or sell order my firm would charge a commission. The commission rate fell as the size of the transaction increased but size definitely mattered. My own performance was measured by the amount of commission I generated and in no time at all I was nearing the top of Laurence Prust’s list of high performing salesmen. I suppose my biggest strength came about when there was a ‘market event’ be it company specific or economic in its nature. In the ensuing chaos, the more chaos the better as far as I was concerned, most panicked and became like rabbits in the headlights. Because of my experience i was calm as ice and I loved the panic and my relative calm. Whilst most would stand idly by I would pick up my phone and call clients offering words of calm or encouraging the opportunity to trade. This ability to stay calm under extreme pressure was a huge advantage and served me well as my career progressed. All good so far and then one day it got even better.

In the 1970s, not to put to fine point on it, inter uterine devices were a recognised form of contraception. Liz was working for the ICRF in the centre of London by this time in Lincoln Ins Field. The now Doctor Elliott she was engaged in research into breast cancer with one of the worlds top teams in the field. Liz was earning a good salary too and we would often meet in town and go to a fine restaurant. Although in truth we never really appreciated the experience.

Liz became unwell and I encouraged her to see the doctor. I arrived home one October evening to be greeted by my grinning wife. ‘I am pregnant’ she said and about 8 months later my darling daughter Joanne was born with the dreaded coil in her hand.

We had bought our first ever new car a green Citroen 2CV. cant really say why but we did. I have over the years made some curious car decisions and this was certainly one of them. Despite being brand new it still struggled with hills. We once took it to the South Of France.The trip was memorable fo the fat that i got badly sunburnt driving with the top down, unfortunately the seatbelt left stripe across my body. We stayed at a beautiful hotel in Cassis having abandoned our plans to camp and we were most affronted when on enquiring as to garage facilities we were told in no uncertain terms. ‘There is no room for a 2CV in the garage, the seafront will do”!!

On June the 18th 1980 Joanne Louise came into the world. She was utterly beautiful. Liz of course played a blinder. In those days new Mums would spend several days in hospital learning the ropes, recuperating and generally bonding with their baby. I returned home sat on the bed and cried my eyes out. I could not have been happier or more proud but I was now a proper ‘grown up’. The following day at work I was bought champagne and a number of former ‘floor colleagues’ came to say hello. The words of a certain Michael Mckee have stuck in my mind. on that day he advised me of one thing. ‘Children are only lent to you, soon they will be gone, treasure every minute of your time with them’. I took his advice and I so happy to record that Jo’s arrival created the happiest period of my own mothers life. She adored her grand daughter beyond words. Jo loved her Nana too. It was special to see them together.

Race Walking was the ‘second sport’ of The Stock Exchange. The very nature of the work meant that many people walked thousands of miles in their working life. The daily average, goodness knows but if todays technology were around I think it would make interesting reading. Indeed I can’t remember any fat people at all working on the floor which is surprising considering the average alcohol consumption.

There were many club race walkers but one, man stood out. Adrian James, an Olympian. Whilst the 6 miles walking race was considered the ‘blue ribbon’ event of the annual Stock Exchange Sports the undisputed ‘big thing’ was the annual London To Brighton ‘Race’. A daunting 55 miles 4 hundred and something yards. In truth there was only one winner, Adrian, but there were a few athletes who would annually strut their stuff. There would be only around 50 people in the ‘race’ but a huge convoy of followers would make the early May day something of a ‘day out’. Firms would stage picnics on the route and competed for the most ‘lavish spread and bar’. Pinchin always had a representative because a former senior partner, now retired, Todd Slaughter by name, was in charge of the whole affair. He was a prickly man and insisted on ‘the letter of the laws’! Being represented in the race became a Pinchin tradition. Unfortunately in 1973 the senior partner of the firm, Lewis Powell, who was not a man I felt comfortable with, put his hand on my shoulder and announced to me of my ‘selection’ to represent the firm. Some measly comment surrounding the fact I had often taken time off to play rugby was used as a final confirmation of my obligation to race. I started training-beyond tedious.

For some reason Adrian James would always make an appearance on the Stock Exchange floor on Friday lunch time. He would arrive with a blue button badge of the firm Cazenove on his lapel a clipboard in his hand. He would then move around the Stock Exchange floor in a sort of display. He might write down some prices then suddenly, with a swirl of his hips set off in a sort of gavotte. He was in truth a strange man but the cult of celebrity was alive even in the mid 70s and people would line up to greet him and on one occasion I saw him sign an autograph-bizarre!. As a rugby player the furthest thing I could imagine from ‘cool’ was ‘race walking’. Unfortunately some wise guy walked up to Adrian and told him I would be ‘racing’ him in the forthcoming event and maybe he could give me some pointers. Oh no! There may have been some who were genuinely interested but what was for sure was my mates lined up to take the piss. Adrian ordered me to show my paces. I reluctantly strutted across the floor. He sucked his teeth and let go on a monologue of hip and waist rotation. The comments of my mates were not helpful and were way more basic. Out of respect I went through the ‘training session’ and if truth be told I did realise why race walkers do their thing. The extra inch or two in the rotation of the hip mounts up over 50 odd miles!

AT 6 am on a sunny May morning we lined up on the start line outside The Houses of Parliament. The gun fired by one of Todd’s assistants and we were off. Before I was halfway across Parliament bride Adrian was disappearing off the end. Each competitor had a ‘second’ who, despite the numerous feed stations along the way, was in place to support, sponge down and feed his charge. My second was of course Chris Jones. He had offered his services immediately the news of my selection was made as I think he had a small sense of guilt that someone with his athletic gifts had escaped the ‘privilege’ of representing the firm.

Liz joined him in his car and Chris, like all other ‘seconds’ had a collapsible or similar bike in the boot of the car in case the ‘walker’ got into difficulties and needed moral support. The rules, of which we were all reminded at the start, were such that the second, if he ‘took to the bike’, must at all times stay behind the ‘walker’. There was a cut off time for the race of 12 hours 8 minutes or something similar. Which had been arrived at over the years to be a time that coincided with the arrival of the weakest walkers at the finish line. Probably the only real theatre of the race was in the finishing shute when Todd Slaughter would leap forward a grin on his face, stopwatch in hand to declare a poor unfortunate soul a ‘non finisher’. Apparently there was always one or two who suffered that fate. Please don’t let it be me I thought as I wobbled along the main street of Streatham on my way. Amazingly considering todays traffic the whole event took place down the main road from London to Brighton!! Somewhere at the end of Streatham a motorist pulled out in front of me and I twisted myself in trying to avoid him. Something pulled and I winced. Chris gave me a cold sponge and I carried on.

As I mentioned above along the route were various places were picnics were staged. Families would gather and they would applaud the walkers through. It was quite a buzz really as many of my own firm were there to cheer, including lots of the partners. My dear friend Bellingham took the whole thing very seriously. It was touch and go whether this event or The Twickenham Sevens was his biggest ‘day out’ of the year but with me ‘walking’ he had special incentive. He had rented an open top bus and he had installed some beer barrels on it. Around 40 or so of his ‘best mates’ had shared the cost and from time to time as I progressed this noisy lot would pass by cheering, before they found another lay-by party to gate crash. As the day wore on they all became very drunk such that once they passed me by without seeing me as they were belting out some rugby song or other.

My longest training walk had been 30 miles and as I reached around that point my hip began to really ache. Chris immediately set up the bike and somehow he managed to ride the next 25 miles on it. Encouraging me, dousing me in water and all the rest. Liz kept circling ahead to hand Chris more supplies. Finally at 50 miles I got to the entry of Brighton-there was a sign that said something like “Welcome to Brighton”. As I got there something went in my head. ‘I cant do this Chris I shouted” I was in agony I could not see straight and all my resolve had gone. Still five miles to go however. There and yet not there-panic! It was like hitting the biggest ‘wall’ in the world. Chris would have none of it. ‘Keep going’ he ordered. He injected some further paranoia by declaring ‘you can still make the cut off time”! I hobbled on, I swore at the official photographer who tried to take an atmospheric shot of me by lying on the pavement and shooting upwards but inconveniencing my route.

Somehow we got to the main street of Brighton. The shops were just closing and it was very busy. all of a sudden that wonderful man behind me, squat of stature, with thick black glasses on his nose broke into ‘The School Chorus’. At the top of his voice he began the first verse. ‘Oh stand we together, together let us call” I joined in ‘On God on high who love us who loves and cares for all”. We sang all six versus and I felt my spirits beginning to rise. God knows what the shoppers must have thought as we did not hold back in our song. Polite applause saluted me from the sides of the road and just as I turned on to the Brighton seafront the bus moved along side me. Bellingham was upstairs at the back hanging off the rail. The boys did me proud ‘There is only one Dennis Elliott’ they blasted out to the familiar tune. At long last my ordeal was over. I completed in 11 hours 22 minutes 15 seconds, well inside the qualifying time but way behind Adrian James who won in a shade over 8 hours. I have never ever been so tired, exhausted, so utterly horrible. I have subsequently taken part in many endurance events at which time I have often consoled myself that nothing could ever be as bad as that day in May. To Chris Jones I offer a silent prayer of thanks. Yet again he was as good as his word and supported me along my way. Liz drove me home in total silence I was gone.

A curious sequel to the event was that in the official photo of me crossing the finishing line in the middle of the picture is the face of a man applauding me. At the time I hardly knew him but in time this man was to inspire some amazing adventures proving that sometimes good will come from bad. His name was Micky Rolfe.

Liz and I married in a Registry Office in Muswell Hill. Keith Bellingham the best man and Madeline and Sarah Bellingham(their beautiful baby daughter) the ‘bridesmaids’. Liz’s Mum (her parents had recently separated) my Mum and dad made up the congregation. The registrar had a squint and I nearly burst out laughing as I ‘played’ with him as he asked me the various questions. It was super low key affair but I never had a single doubt I was doing the right thing. I hope Liz felt that way too. We returned home to our flat and the following morning we headed off to Greece for our ‘honeymoon’. Perhaps a little unusually Peter and Karen Borriello came too!!. We had a great time as it happens although we were to learn that on a ‘day to day’ basis the two B’s were not as harmonious as we thought. Sadly Karen got fed up of Peters’ ways and she left him not long afterwards.

My job on The Stock Exchange floor had moved up several cogs. I became very good at what I did if truth be told. I would get invites to boardroom lunches hosted by broking firms in order to provide a ‘market perspective’ for the chosen fund manager fellow guests. My knowledge of the sector was by this time encyclopaedic and I found myself opining on the relative values of the various companies I was trading in. It proved very popular especially with one firm called Kitcat and Aitken who enjoyed the status of ‘second rank’ in the official top ten of firms who covered the sector.

A fearful row broke out at Pinchin with me in the middle. Roger Wellesley Smith who ran the leader book, (the nations leading companies of the time Glaxo, ICI etc), had requested my promotion to his number two. It was a huge compliment to me as it suggested that a partnership in the form would soon follow and I had been identified as being ‘special’. Colin Fairburn said ‘no’ I was too valuable for him to loose. I was bang in the middle. Fairbairn was very unpleasant to work for although I was spared the majority of his bad behaviour and the idea of such a promotion was truly exciting. It was desperate and if truth be told I became very depressed as the stress internalised in me coupled with frustration and anger. I probably drank to much too as Bellingham was there to encourage me in the evenings and at weekends.

One day out of the blue a partner of Kitkat and Aitken took me to lunch. ‘Dennis’ he said ‘we are very keen to offer you a job advising fund managers on their approach and policy to The Shipping and Transport sector. We will pay you well and if you succeed, as we are certain you will, a partnership will come for way and with that riches!’. OMG.

Maybe because of all the stress Liz and I had begun to feel hemmed in in our one bedroomed flat. We had saved some money and the indications were the value of our property had appreciated. One weekend we found our selves in Barnet. I knew the place courtesy of one visit with The Finchley Club to play their local rivals Barnet. Barnet RFC were the complete opposite of Finchey. A hugely charismatic President,a smart kit and an attitude of the membership to all comers of fair play and fun. I was not playing rugby because of my shoulder but we decided to look round an odd looking detached house in a largely terraced street-800 meters or so from Barnet Rugby Club. The Club itself was right on the edge of London so motorways and the like were close at hand. I am not sure if I mentioned the locality of the rugby club to Liz but we both liked the pub on the corner of the street The Seabright Arms. The house needs a complete redo. We both thought we saw an opportunity. We sold our flat for £29999 doubling our money and we replaced it with our house for some £50 less.

We worked tirelessly for the next is months. Painting, plumbing, we even fitted a kitchen. Liz went on an upholstery course and proved she had huge talent. She would source old chairs from junk shops and recover them. We still have one today and it is superb. I made a sofa frame and Liz covered it. Our bible was The Readers digest DIY manual-it was well thumbed!

I was battling hard against my confusion at work. Kitkat would regularly ask me if I had changed my mind. One day another worm turned. The number one firm in the sector was Laurence Prust and its ‘star’ analyst was a man called Dan White. He had the ear of most company management he followed and he was considered to be amongst the best analysts of his era according to a series of surveys.

I was playing for The annual match against The HAC before a lively crowd a year or so before. Dan had come to support the Stock Exchange hooker who worked for his firm and was a good friend of mine Ian Thomas.( at this point I only knew Dan by his reputation). Now for some reason I always referred to Ian as ‘Thomson’ and he to me as ‘Ellis’. Countless people would try to put us right. Hie name is ‘Thomas’ they would say yes I know I would say, ‘Thompson’. Ian would reciprocate similarly with the ‘Elliott Ellis’ line. Silly but fun. Any way there we were and I hoisted a steepling up an under and gave chase and saw ‘Thomson’ out of the corner of my eye. ‘Lets go Thomson’ I roared ‘with you Ellis’ he retorted. the full back caught the ball and us two as well. I got up grinning and trotted off but Ian was lying on the ground holding his head. After the match he complained of blurred vision and we agreed a precautionary hospital visit was on the cards. Ian asked me if I would mind going to the pub where he had agreed to meet his work colleagues and explain what was what. Unfortunately Ian had detached a retina, courtesy of my elbow, and this was to be his last ever game of rugby. I walked into a bar a bit later on and met Mr Big , Dan White. We had a lot to drink and I am afraid I may have been bit cocky as I decided to give Dan my advice on shipping shares.

The whole episode played out as one day a year or so later I was sitting o my ‘pitch’ feeling very low. It was lunchtime and the market was dead. One of Dan’s fellow partners got talking to me and he ready noticed I was unhappy and he offered a sort of fatherly approach his name was Robert Bruce. It was good to unburden to someone like him and I told him about my blocked promotion, the stress it had caused me and the job offer from a rival firm of his. He did not hang around long which I found quite strange. I regretted opening my mouth too although could not see any negative implication.

I returned home to Seabright Road that evening nd probably painted a wall. The next day was to be a remarkable one, around 11 am my ‘outside line’ rang. This was a secret number and only released via our switchboard to ‘special’ people. It would often signal a press reporter or similar looking for a scoop so I took the call with some reticense. ‘Dan White here Dennis’ I wonder of you would like to join me for lunch?.

Dan was keen to add me to his team. He offered me a job at twice my existing salary with the promise of a bonus too such that I would be taking home a significant sum of high teens of thousands of pounds. He was ‘the man’ so my chance of success was high and the prospect of partnership in short order was dangled. The decision was easy and much like my old mentor Tiger had advised me many years ago, ‘ in life three decisions should always be ‘no brainers’ choosing a woman to be your wife, buying a house and changing jobs’ I have followed that advice to the letter and when I have strayed even the slightest bit from its message (usually in buying houses) I have found the advice to be absolutely cast iron. I gave in my notice at Pinchin, Fairborn was unfortunately an arsehole and he made me serve my contractual 6 months notice. I should have just walked out because despite making a life changing decision I was still very stressed and unhappy courtesy of the treatment I received. It was a very long six months.

Liz would often come and stay in Clapham but as her work was in Collindale the commute was not practical. Life in Elms Crescent was so much fun. We often had parties, a black tie champagne do being the most memorable. A South African man joined the house, Donavan Neale May. He had fled the politics of Apartheid but he was a top athlete, on the verge of the Springboks Rugby team. He was very serious minded and he bought a set of weights and would rise at 6 every day for a circuit around Clapham Common. Various exercises coupled with sprinting. Liz and I would join him on occasion and Liz took to serious exercise like a duck to water. She was a fast runner but also very strong. Donavan nodded approvingly as Liz performed press ups on the bandstand steps. Straight back no half measures! Donavan’s girlfriend came to stay too. She was a Californian and absolutely beautiful in that all American perfect teeth and figure way. She nearly killed us all as she assumed that American technology was a global thing. She turned the stove on and wandered off. Unfortunately an automatic gas lighter was not in place and the explosion that occurred some ten minutes later was quite a thing. She left soon after this event as clearly the UK was not for her. Donavan moved to the USA a year or two later and as far as I know they are still together.

Over time Liz and I sort of assumed we would be ‘together’ I think. After perhaps 9 months we found ourselves in North London. I did not know the area at all but soon we found ourselves looking at flats. Coolhurst Lodge was in fact right on the Crouch End/Highgate borders. Of course we adopted the latter address. It overlooked some public shall playing fields. For the princely sum of £13,995 we bought a one bedroomed flat. It had dark blue carpets and a large glass window overlooking the field in its sitting room. The electric blow heaters did not work I remember but other wise the 1960’s built block was fine and we also had a cellar room and a garage no less.

Liz had to sell her precious mini which was bought courtesy of her much loved Papa Jock’s inheritance. We had no furniture at all, literally none, no stove and no bed. I scoured local skips and came back with a table and chairs which we painted white. We bought a mattress for £3 I remember from some friends parents. We got a stove courtesy of the local paper classifieds with the blessing of a Jewish couple who were delighted to send us on our way. It was very heavy and cream coloured. We bought some other bits and bobs and set to work on home brewing. Most of the produce was filthy but one day I made a memorable discovery. Mix the sweet and dry white wines together and bingo, well almost, at least it was vaguely drinkable.

For some reason, I cannot think why, maybe it was the cost, we bought a left hand drive Citroen 2 CV. It was amazing. Amazing because we went miles in it. It had a washing line as a starter the igninion process was via a screw driver. No door locks and a heater that only gave out heat if you covered the radiator with tin foil. We would go to Liverpool in it up the M1 albeit having to change down on the ‘hills’, yes there are plenty on the motorway if you have a 2CV. In the end this car developed some electrical issues. Liz had brilliantly joined the RAC but after two or three visits by the same patrolman in places like the the main Highgate Road into London the man informed us that despite our right to do ask for help he would refuse to answer any further calls as the car was a ‘death trap’ and should be sold. Ironically we sold the car for the same price we had paid for it to a couple who were off to ‘explore Europe’. Two days later they were back at our flat, the car had expired! We came to some arrangement financially and moved on. Our next car was a British Racing Green MGB GT. We were moving up in the world.

Life in ‘Highgate’ was fun. I was working hard, as was Liz, and we were determined to save some money. Our social life was centred around a couple who had a beautiful daughter who was called Sara. Keith Bellingham was, by his own admission, ‘a legend in his own lunchtime’. He worked on the Stock Exchange and we had met on the Northern line one night where I swear I sam him sleeping standing up hanging on to the straps. After a few chats Keith invited me for a pint and we met up in Highgate Village. It was literally the first of ‘many’. many many pints!. His wife was Swedish, Madeleine, she was very beautiful with a delightful personality. Liz and Maddy really hit it off and Keith and I focussed on the various real ale pubs in the area. The Bellingham’s flat was spectacular as Madeleine had used all her native ‘homemaking skills’ to create a look and feel that was exceptional and which motivated Liz and I to maximise our own home.

Our desire to make money and enjoy life resulted in a great adventure. Peter Boriello works with Liz. He was of Italian routes with red hair and a real drive and a quirky sense of humour. He later became an eminent professor specialising in tropical disease but at this stage he and his wife Karen lived in a flat in Collindale.

Any way on Saturday trip into London the four of us found ourselves in a ‘bric a brac’ street market in London. Peter suggested we start our own stall and so it began. Over the next 6 months or so we built a business. We sold all sorts of things. Wait for this. I made plywood rocking horses that Liz painted. Liz made beautiful baby quilts- extra for a bespoke job.. Peter would source all sorts of stuff from junk shops, like silk screen printing presses and pendulum lights which we turned into colourful hanging baskets. Karen painted glassware to serve as stylish storage jars. The list of stuff we sold went on and on. One day a van arrived at the market and from the back door a man sold plants. Everyone loved rubber plants and cheese plants back in the day and the van was full of them. Peter was very self confident and he approached the man and established that the plants were in fact Marks and Spencer seconds that maybe had a browned leaf or similar and as such had not past inspection. The man would spend the next few hours unloading his stock as with a small amount of care the plants could be returned to looking good. Peter came up with a plan. The following week he waited for the man to arrive and approached him with a ‘knock out bid’ for the van load. The man, delighted to have free morning, readily agreed. Liz and Karen tended to the plants and put some of them in containers and bingo we were in the house plant. I seem to remember we comfortably doubled our money each week on that venture. I would wear a peaked fat cap as a disguise in case, as would happen, someone from the Stock exchange turned up. Don’t know why but I preferred to keep my two jobs separate. Incredibly after a while each couple would take home over a hundred pounds for a days work which was a lot of money tax free in those days. It paid for some holidays some great nights out and best of all gave us another focus in our lives. Interestingly it also taught me a lot about market psychology, why a small change in price with effective promotion creates demand and the like. The lessons proved valuable to me in my ‘day job’ as I understood how much emotion is involved in any purchase or sale decision.

My rugby had taken a distinct backward step. I had played a bit for The Richmond Heavies who were one of the countries leading Rugby Clubs veteran side. I was 24 or so and somehow a mate persuaded me to have a game for them as they needed some young legs. It was beyond funny. The team had Tony Bucknell in it. Now in his early thirties but as a former national team captain an amazing Vets player. There was a former England second row too called Dennis Ralston. The team in fact went years unbeaten despite their own fixture secretaries attempt to undo them by inviting younger teams to take them on. Now the thing that made this lot unbelievable was as follows. They drank beer BEFORE the match. Not one pint but three of four. They had a double decker bus with inbuilt stereo and a bar to take them around. I well remember turning up at Blackheath to take on their veterans, The Blades. The referee was a pompous little man and he walked into our changing room in order to give us a blocking for our tardy arrival-truth was we had been ‘training’ in the Antelope in Sloane Square. The blocking was such that our whole team broke down into uncontrollable laughter. We were literally rolling about the place. I begged the ref to stop his tirade but the thing went on for about five minutes. Despite the refs antagonism towards in the match The Blades were dispatched. After a number of months of this madness I joined Finchley Rugby club, the worst Rugby Club on planet earth. It was there in a Middlesex Cup match I dislocated my shoulder and my Rugby career was put on hold.

I returned home to London from Greece. Just two weeks previously I had answered an advert in the Evening Standard and had taken a place in a large house in Clapham. It was a fabulous place with big rooms 3 bathrooms one of them with dimming lights and and a huge conservatory. There was nine of us from memory 5 boys and 4 girls. One of the girls Caro? was a superb cook and a real boss. She kept the boys in order so the house was always clean and we often ate together in the evenings. To me I felt ‘grown up’ for the first time in my life. James was old Etonian and worked in the advertising industry. Dominic was a human delight and was in oil, Gordon in shipping, Careena (who eventually teamed up for a while with Gordon was a nurse. Evening meals were civilised we had a drink of wine but we were sensible and the food and current affairs and each other’s lives were the main topics of conversation. Not only was I starting a new chapter of my working career but I was living in this fantastic house with great people and my holiday had resulted in me meeting some one who had really given me a jolt. I was smitten by her and yet very afraid, for a huge number of reasons that back in London it just would not be the same.

Liz had been warned by the chalet girls, ‘who had met many like me’, that holiday romances are fun but seldom do they work out. To make things worse Liz had booked into the villa for a further two weeks. I was pining, worrying. She might meet someone else, she would not find me so much fun as she thought when she came back home. After ten days of worry a letter arrived on the matt which was from Liz. No internet or mobile phones then, a letter with a stamp, a Greek stamp. Liz outlined how much she had enjoyed my company. She was quite clear that we may not have a future but she would like very much to find out. She gave me her flight details and ended with something like, ‘dont worry if you are not there I will totally understand”.

Now the truth was I was skint. I had paid off my overdraft and my new position at work had given me a rise but that was very recently. I agonised on what to wear and as I did not have a car even just what she might think of me. Nigel Burnford dressed me in one of his polar neck sweaters and lent me a duffle coat. It was October by now and I may have been a tad overdressed my new friend in Elms Crescent Clapham assured me I look good. I went to Hertz to rent a car for the weekend. As it happened they only had one car available. It was a Ford Granada in a bright green. It was just hideous and from a boy who used to drive Lotus Elan the very reserve of cool. My calculation was I know not but I set out for Heathrow airport in a state of utter anxiety. I need not have worried. we settled immediately back into our routine. Laughter, fun, kindness and mutual support. Liz laughed at the car. I took her to see my house and the few who were there that day welcomed Liz and were very nice to her. I took her to her flat in Chalk Farm and met her two flatmates who were both very nice and welcoming. two days later I concluded the doubters were wrong this was not a holiday romance I had met someone special and she was well worth every effort I could make to see if things would develop. At the time Liz was working in Collindale. She had a degree in micro biology and was employed in one of the world’s leading research teams who were looking at all things related to gut cancer and gut health. To this day some of the work Liz did will be referenced in learned papers. The stuff she told me then still makes the news today as if it is new. Liz eventually gained a PHD based around her thesis of metabolism of gut bacteria by amino acid. I had not only met a stunning woman but she had real brains and best of a sense of humour that when released was right up my street.

I was now a jobber on the floor of the stock exchange. I worked originally with a typical East End city type Mike Rogers. We were one of three firms making a market in shipping and transport shares. He believed in teaching by insult and criticism. Thankfully as well as Mike another man who worked alongside us ,Mike Reader, became another of my life’s coaches. An ex guardsmen he was suave and intelligent. He loved rugby so I had much to chat with him about. He was patient with me and behind Mike Rogers school of hard knocks was a patient caring hand. Over time I began to get the hang of things and urged on by Mike Reader I set my own course. In an earlier piece I referred to my original boss’s methodology of learning every thing he could about the companies he was interested in. I did the same. i cut things out in the paper I studied charts and did what ever I could to understand what was happening in the 40 or so companies I was trading in. Put very simply we had a some of money, around 1 million pounds and we were charged with buying and selling shares via the prices we bid and offered. The key element of our profit and loss was the day to day turnover. In PandO there might be a hundred or more transactions. In European Ferries maybe a thousand deals as 300 shares gave any holder a discount across the channel. The broker would approach us and ask for a price in any one of our stocks. ‘European ferries please and what size’ would be a typical enquiry. 130 to 131 in 25 we might respond. This meant we would stand by the price we had made offering to buy at 130 and sell at 131 in 25thousand shares. Brokers would choose the most favourable price available via the 3 firms and then make their transaction. If we started buy-in too many shares we would move our price down and vice versa. In normal conditions the price movements were limited but when the market became volatile it became a game of self preservation and wit. I can not tell you just how stressful it was when a major company announced its figures. The company brokers ould give us a sheet of paper with the results on them at exactly the same time as the screens around the floor would flash and the bells rang to announce P&0’s annual results. From nowhere perhaps 500 people would designed on our ‘pitch’ with their walkie talkies held to their ears. ‘What are they’? they would bay. Somehow we had to calm our nerves evaluate the figures, hoping they were in range of expectations and then make a price. The crowd would rush away and another crowd would appear armed with one of our rival’s prices. After 5 minutes or so the new level would be established and life would go on and my heart return to a normal rate. The thing was at the end of each day we were left with residual positions. Overtime I learned how to finesse the process and choose and shape the portions we ended up with. Mike Rogers was something of a gambler and our metjodologies were not aligned but he was the boss. Make no bones about it this was serious tuff and as the week wore on the stress levels would rise. To add to the stress the partner who was overall in charge of the team I worked with which covered various overseas trading companies, plantation and tea shares was a man who, although hugely able and intelligent was a serious alcoholic who was given to outbreaks of rage. I was in truth his blue eyed boy and rater like George Robinson he took an interest in me. Bizzarly he would take me to a special office we had in the dungeons of the Stock Exchange. I had been interviewed there but what else it was for I know not. Any way he would take me there and as I drank cup of coffee he would sluice down his first two or three sweet sherries of the day. He would then teach me about all sorts of odd things. He taught me to French Polish and was delighted when I started buying old furniture form junk shops an renovating them. He had no children of his own and maybe like George I was the sort of person he could see as his son. I normally avoided his wrath which would often appear late in the day but the whole set up was not a little uncomfortable.

I will skip a lot of time here and jump ahead. After 18 months or so when Mike Rogers was on holiday and I was in sole charge I put my methodology to the test and I did very well making a lot of money for the ‘account period’. I did so without interference but it was very hard work and took extreme concentration. At the end of the period before Mike Roger’s return, Mike Reader took the boss Colin fairbairn out for drink (god help us). They returned about three hours later and I was told from that time onward I was to be promoted and would be in sole charge of the book. I was given a junior to work with me and my career took off. I was extremely diligent but I was always anxious and often I felt like being sick in the mornings especially if some major company figures were expected. After 3 years or so I was taken aside by the firms senior partner and I was congratulated with the news I was to be sent in front of The Stock Exchange Counsil to seek approval for membership. It was a moving day and Roger Wellesley Smith was kind enough to propose me to the committee. It was of course a formality but sat before 20 or so influential senior people was quite an ordeal. I remember calling my mother and she was so proud of me. I got a silver badge and the following day i walked on to the floor of the house with my head held high.

Lindos in Greece is an idyllic place. Well it was then in 1973 maybe not quite so nice now. I believe Lindos means the ‘beautiful place’. There is an acropolis there and local men offer to carry tourists, most of whom are American, up to the Acropolis that is perched on the clifftops above the impossibly beautiful white washed narrow streets on their donkey for a fixed fee. Now I have to say the villa where we stayed was superb the grub just excellent and the two ‘villa maids’ were great fun. Martin and I became friendly with the girls who both had local Greek boy friends. The wine flowed and in truth martin and I were quite a double act as our humour and approach to life seemed to be non standard amongst the rather boring other guests who were generally young executives looking for love having by passed their youth. Through the villa girls we met the local and before long I was trusted with a donkey. I had so much fun posing as a Greek ( despite the obvious deliberate mistake of my far from Grecian skin). Martin favoured the bar and he would sit amongst the locals sipping ooze and hurling comments in my direction as I passed by with my donkey and rider. I so wish I had a picture of the time. On one level it was silly but on another it was just what I needed. My year of depression and difficulty slowly receded into the evening sunset.

After one week the villa emptied and a new crew appeared we were the only ones left.. Through the curtains of a mental hangover I noticed a slim beautifully proportioned your woman. She had a captivating smile and everything about her oozed style. She was twiggy like in proportion, her hair was beautifully cut and her nails painted. She wore a flowing dress. I clearly remember thinking of the ‘most beautiful butterfly’. I was all confused. I told Martin ‘I was in love’ and he laughed. That night at dinner I was very quiet and I was consumed with jealousy at the two people who flanked this woman chatting to her and she animatedly chatting back. I was in confusion as I wanted to talk to her but I feared being rejected.

The following morning I accidentally came across her on the beach. She was sunbathing in a bikini revealing a very muscled perfect body-if a little thin I thought. I had had a ‘livened’ my regular 11 AM ‘bloody mary’ and I reached down and buried her left leg with sand. Would you like to join me for a drink in a little bar I asked? ‘No thanks’ she said and my heart sank. I was about to move off but she said some words I will always remember, ‘you had better bury the other leg as I cant stand uneven tans’.

I introduced myself and soon we were chatting. I was quite good at water skiing and I invited her to accompany me on my ‘friend’ Yanni’s boat. Yanni was one of the Villa girls boyfriend. It was a commercial affair but he always gave me a discount. I showed off of course and I persuaded ‘Lizzie’ to have a go. It was her first time and she struggled through two attempts to ‘get up’. There was a look of determination on her face that filled me with admiration. To her delight on the third go -success. There she was skiing along a beautiful smile lighting up her face. I felt quite giddy as I helped her back into the boat. Apparently the villa girls had taken Liz aside and warned her to be careful of men like Martin and I, why on earth would they do that.? However after evening cocktails I found myself painting Liz’s toenails. We were chatting about everything and it felt so good. We went to the disco and we danced to the songs of John lennon and Richie Havens. She swirled around her dance style spectacular. Later late at night we sat on the villa rooftop and we shared life stories. It seemed we both had similar ambitions to live life to the full and at some stage to make our individual family life the most important thing in our being. After one night this was quite thing to share. It seems so natural for me to talk to this woman like no other I had ever met. As dawn was breaking we bade each other good night. I clearly remember lying on my bed a tear in my eye. I had met someone really really special.